


The Sins of the Father

by Ladybmorebelle



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Behind the Scenes, Childhood Trauma, Coming Out, Fire, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, atomwave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 03:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14035029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybmorebelle/pseuds/Ladybmorebelle
Summary: Mick's life has become unmanageable. Ray Palmer was almost beaten to death, and it's Mick's fault, and he doesn't know if he can change.





	The Sins of the Father

It was all his fault. 

Len - the other Len, the reminder of a dead man - had said he had a problem, and maybe he knew that, deep down, but alcohol was too damned good to give up. When he was younger, he’d wait until four o’clock before he started, counting down the minutes, but on the Waverider time didn’t exist, really, and what was the point? He drank when he wanted - and who really cared, anyway, if he started when he woke up and stopped when he passed out?

And maybe he wanted something more, something better for himself. Maybe his age was showing in the hangovers, getting steadily worse, or in the dry feeling in the back of his throat before he swallowed the next gulp of beer. Maybe he looked at all the young people on this fucking ship and thought, God, I wish, I wish I could be like that. Healthy. Happy. Whole.

But in the end it never mattered - even when he woke in the middle of the night, drinking a liter of ice cold water and longing for death - and he kept drinking. Drunk, this world was tolerable. He didn’t feel the distance, the lack of human connection, when this team he was supposed to love wavered in double images of intoxication. 

His dad drank. When he watched his house burn to the ground, he thought, I won’t be like him. I won’t. But genetics won out, and his traumas, and he suddenly understood why his father numbed himself. Hell, he didn’t have kids to screw up, so why fight it - his drunkenness harmed no one but himself.

Until Ray. Until Sara picked up that death totem and beat him to a bloody pulp.

Looking at Ray’s broken body, Mick staggered back, and he thought he might vomit, beer splattering on the floor. He didn’t want to see it - he didn’t know why he cared. But a sick feeling coiled in the acid of his stomach, and a panic burned in his brain, and he wanted to shake Ray and say, God damn it, why are you so fucking stupid? So soft? Don’t you know that without the Atom suit you’re just too - too --

He found a bottle of antacids and chewed them in mouthfuls. Gideon worked to repair the man he had, for a few moments, called his partner. His muscled flesh was torn to shreds. And Mick thought that maybe this would be the thing which got him sober, even though in that moment all he wanted was a drink.

He sat in his sweat and bile and thought about Ray, the stupid, geeky look on his face when he put the fire totem in his nuclear device, the invitation he had offered so joyfully, for Mick to watch heat at its most deadly. And he thought about the way that Ray always took care of him - and he hated that, hated the helplessness, the idea of depending on anyone - and his guileless attempt to memorialize Axl. Ray found that rat for him, and for a breathless, hungover moment, Mick thought that maybe he loved that stupid rat so damned much because it was the only gift from Ray he had been weak enough to receive. 

He thought about bagged lunches and goofy smiles and the weird vegetables Ray always put in his sandwiches. Ray twitched, moaned as Gideon knit together his wounds, and Mick flinched, and he wanted to burn him and cauterize him and apologize and swear, I’ll never do it, I’ll never drink again, just please, please get better.

He sat as far away from Haircut as he possibly could. He tried not to look. All those cuts on his perfect face - all his fault. He did this, almost as if he was wielding the death totem himself. Maybe all he was good for was killing things. He remembered the sound of his father’s whiskey bottles shattering in the heat of their burning home. He remembered that his father’s screams were thick with the Novocaine of booze. 

His stomach turned, and he swallowed more antacids, dry and hard as chalk. He had to get out of here.

He was no hero. He was a monster. When he walked past Ray’s body, going off to use his hulking mass in another fight for this mad life through time, he wanted to shake him, and hurt him, and do the things he had thought about, alone in his bunk. He growled, quiet and fierce, and the pain on Ray’s face eased at the sound. Like there was something in Mick’s voice which was kind. Like he was being comforted. 

But it had to be a lie. No one could want him, his anger, his violence. No one could be soothed by him, a drunken fool. 

And when Amaya handed him the fire totem he knew, without thinking, that it was a waste of his damned time. 

But he opened his hand, and there was a rush of pleasure and satisfaction, a fucking incredible release, and he wasn’t drunk anymore, and fire, his first love, came from a deep well of passion within him. 

He was a door, unlocked. His mind was clear, and with it, his heart, and he knew that after he dealt with Sara and Mallus and whatever fucking else he was going to go back to sick bay. He was going to be a hero - he was going to hold Ray’s hand.

Sara was saved, of course, her girlfriend bringing her back from whatever evil place Mallus had built for her. Mick observed with the purity of flame two women who didn’t lie to themselves. Without drink, without a hangover, he allowed himself to consider this new world, when people could be honest, out and open and free.

His dad had beaten the shit out of him. His dad was a drunk. And his dad was dead, and couldn’t grind him into the dirt for something he couldn’t control. 

Fire burned within him and he was clean.

Back in sick bay, Ray was healing, and Mick pulled a chair over to his bed so he could sit there, watching. The gentle hum of Gideon’s invisible surgical tools was interrupted at regular intervals by the rush of flame in Mick’s hands. He clenched and unclenched his fingers - for the first time in his life, he was warm, but he was still terrified. The pain on Ray’s face grew faint and distant, eyes fluttering, caught in the remnants of a nightmare. Mick placed his hot hands on Haircut’s forehead, smoothing the tracery of healing cuts, pushing back his silky hair, and Ray smiled, just a little, in the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

Ray’s head turned toward to sound of his rough voice. Even in his unconsciousness, he nestled into Mick’s calloused hands. Everything froze inside of him in cold terror, and then he felt the fire totem scald his chest and he relaxed into the heat. 

Ray’s voice was quiet, strained, but impossibly content. He sighed, “Partner.”

Before he could fully awake, Mick leaned over him and pressed his lips to the hidden smile in Ray’s cheek. Sleeping, Ray tilted his head.

Their first kiss was a conflagration of all of his fears. 

Nothing could compare to this. 

Ray’s eyes opened with heavy lidded pleasure, and then he smiled his goofy smile, and he nodded, once, in a gesture of utter rightness and consent. He made a small sound, settling back into Mick's hands, and slept.

And Mick knew, with a determined finality, that he would never need the cold numbness of alcohol again.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been super worried about Mick's drinking and last night's episode reminded me of all the harm addiction can do. This fic takes into consideration the reasons, genetic and psychological, why someone might have a problematic relationship with alcohol. Plus, you know, hurt/comfort and Atomwave goodness.


End file.
